Miss de Ferrers studied her with an incising gaze. “If we are satisfied, would you be willing to see more such patients?”
For months, Ivy had ached to help the bedraggled workers. “I would. But why ask me?”
The chemist’s gaze skittered away, and her jaw shifted to the side. “I ... was not kind to you. Yet you’ve been persistent in your kindness to me. After Mr. Carter was deported, the shop lost many patients. A woman in charge, you know.”
“I know, but my referrals to your shop have been earned.”
Miss de Ferrers jerked one shoulder. “You’d best move along. Here’s the address, in St. Brelade. Please burn this.” She handed Ivy a slip of paper.
“Thank you.”
Miss de Ferrers strode out toward the counter. “If we should need you again, I’ll ring. I’ll speak only to you, not your receptionist.”
“I understand.” Fern would too, since she couldn’t answer questions about prescriptions.
“I will tell you Mrs. Smith—or a similar name, it matters not—told me you were making a home visit, and would you please pick up her prescription on your way.” Miss de Ferrers swung open a half door in the counter and led Ivy through the shop. “When you arrive here, I’ll tell you the actual name and address, and I’ll give you a medication to take with you as cover.”
“Very clever.”
“Good day to you.” Miss de Ferrers flipped the sign back to “open.”
“Good day to you too.” Ivy smiled, but the chemist was already halfway across the shop.
Outside, Ivy mounted her bicycle and headed west out of town. Miss de Ferrers might never be a friend, but at least Ivy had earned her respect—and that was a cherished gift.
A mist hung over St. Aubin’s Bay, obscuring the horizon. If Ivy were to treat escaped workers on a regular basis, she’d have an even greater need to follow Fern’s plans to simplify her rounds.
Yet the waves called to her to be sketched. The tiny flowers thatwould emerge if she stopped to look. The curlews hopping on the sand, ignoring the barbed wire and the German signs warning of mines.
She loved caring for patients, but without her sketch pad, she felt ... diminished.
When she reached St. Aubin’s village, she turned right, then found the road leading to the Bullard home.
Mrs. Bullard, a thin woman in her forties, rushed Ivy inside and upstairs to a bedroom, where the curtains were drawn.
A paraffin lamp revealed a young man lying on the bed, wild-eyed, his wrists tied to a bedpost. A streak of red stained his tattered trousers.
“I—I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Mr. Bullard stood at the foot of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck, his face contorted. “He was in my rabbit hutch, had my best breeder by the throat. I—I didn’t think. I clobbered him with a piece of lumber. But there was a nail.” His voice broke.
“It’s all right. I understand.” Ivy stepped closer to the bed. “I’m Dr. Picot, and I’m here to help you.”
“He doesn’t speak English,” Mrs. Bullard said.
“We had to tie him up.” Mr. Bullard gestured to the bed. “He keeps trying to run away, but if they catch him—”
“He’s just a boy.” Mrs. Bullard clapped a hand over her mouth.
He was indeed a boy, no older than Charlie, and he shrank back from Ivy, chattering in Russian or Ukrainian.
Ivy knelt a few feet away from the bed. “I’m a doctor.” She displayed her medical bag, then removed her stethoscope and showed it to the boy. “Doctor.”
“Our neighbor came by,” Mrs. Bullard said. “He told us to ring—”
“Hush, Mabel.”
“But Dr. Picot is part of the—”
“No one,” Mr. Bullard said. “No one. Remember?”
